


a mess of times (a mess of angles)

by anorchidisnotaflower



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, One Shot, Season/Series 04, Timeline Shenanigans, written after and inspired by 4x04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-13 00:16:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21234965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anorchidisnotaflower/pseuds/anorchidisnotaflower
Summary: "Somewhere far away from here, somewhere just an inch or two to the left, two men enter an arcade."There's something between Elliot and Tyrell—no matter where they might be.Russian translation byYulia_Kuzyavailablehere.





	a mess of times (a mess of angles)

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from "We Almost Nailed It" by Z Berg.

Somewhere far away from here, somewhere just an inch or two to the left, two men enter an arcade.

The man named Tyrell Wellick says, “I love—”

And the man named Elliot Alderson—well, the man who claims to be Elliot Alderson—says, “Some things are better left unsaid.”

* * *

Somewhere a bit farther, but to the right this time, Tyrell smiles as he wakes to the feeling of lips pressing to his nose.

“Elliot,” he huffs, laughter in every curve of his smile.

“G’morning,” Elliot (and he _is_ Elliot this time) says, a grin sneaking its way up his face.

They make breakfast together—or, Elliot lounges in his hoodie, loose and open, and Tyrell fries eggs, scrambling them. They keep glancing at one another, disbelief and relief at once etched into their stances.

“I can’t believe I found you,” Tyrell says, handing a plate of (slightly burned) eggs to Elliot.

“I don’t believe any of this,” Elliot replies, eating a mouthful of eggs before he can smile again.

* * *

Somewhere else, Elliot breathes, breathes, and stops. Tyrell perches over his body, cooling already in his grip, and presses down, down, down on his stomach.

He keeps saying Elliot’s name, pleading at first, before it begins to lose all meaning. His name becomes sounds, syllables barely strung together, and there’s still so much blood.

Tyrell is pulled away, later. Rough arms. Guns. Elliot is gone before he can try his name one more time.

Irving tosses him a sympathetic glance, says they’ll contact him, and leaves.

Tyrell stays on the floor, curled up. He doesn’t notice the light and shadows shift through the windows. Doesn’t feel the grime under his cheek. The blood under his fingernails.

He just closes his eyes, and he repeats. “Elliot. Elliot.”

* * *

In a boardroom, Tyrell Wellick asks Elliot Alderson to stay.

There are more than two answers, and Elliot could give any of them, and he knows.

* * *

Framed in a window, Elliot counts the lights flickering on and off in the city below. One, two…

“You’re awake,” Tyrell murmurs, stepping out of the bedroom. He rubs his eyes, yawns.

Elliot shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“I know.” Tyrell walks over, peering out the window. “Just like the city, hm?”

Elliot huffs. “Yeah, man.”

They don’t quite touch, watching the lights together, but Elliot can feel the warmth from Tyrell, the soft sleeve of his pajamas.

“I,” Tyrell starts. “I’ve been having… strange dreams.”

Elliot glances over at him, away. “About?”

Tyrell laughs, but it’s quiet. Strained. “You.”

Elliot frowns. “Tyrell, I don’t—”

“I know, Elliot, I know,” Tyrell says. “This is just an alliance. I get it. I just—”

He sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair. Elliot can’t help it—his eyes are drawn to the movement, watching Tyrell’s perfect hair (not so perfect, really, not now) upend itself.

“I want to explain it to you,” Tyrell says.

“Then explain it.”

Tyrell stretches the fingers of his hands out, draws them back in. “There are… there’s you. And then there’s… another you. We’re friends, and then we’re not… It’s confusing.”

“You’re seeing different versions of me and you?” Elliot asks.

“Exactly,” Tyrell exclaims, turning to Elliot. “You can always pinpoint what I’m trying to say. It’s—”

He stops. “Well. It’s… remarkable, really. You understand me.”

Elliot looks over, and Tyrell is an open book: hands not quite reaching, face crumpled from lack of sleep, blue, blue, blue eyes. He doesn’t know how he didn’t see it before, the care Tyrell weaves into everything he does, everything he is.

He almost wants—

But it’s only almost, here.

So Elliot just nods. “Okay.”

And Tyrell looks away. “I just thought I’d tell you.”

* * *

Hiding under the cover of dark, a man in a hoodie (the same one, always the same) says, “I don’t know what to do about you.”

A man in a suit (worth almost $6,000) says, “You don’t need to know. Just do.”

And every once in a while, the man in the hoodie grabs the man in the suit. He chokes him, maybe. Tries to hurt him.

But once, just once, he decides to kiss the man in the suit instead.

* * *

Music spins lazily from a record player, its sound crackled at every edge. The song—a low, jaunty piano, gentle male harmonies—fills the space, blanketing the slow dancers in the middle of the floor.

Two glasses of wine lie abandoned on the counter. A suit jacket is draped on the couch.

Elliot holds Tyrell’s hand just a bit tighter, placing his head on Tyrell’s chest. They shuffle in circles, not going anywhere, not really, but Elliot takes small, smaller steps, trying to figure out where they’re headed.

“Elliot,” Tyrell murmurs.

“Yeah?”

“Nothing. Just… just wanted to make sure you’re still there.”

“I’m here.”

“Okay.”

“…Tyrell?” Elliot asks.

“Yeah?”

“…Just making sure you’re still here, too.”

“Okay.”

The singer croons, _“Earth angel, earth angel…”_

Tyrell softly hums along, and Elliot feels every note echo in his bones.

* * *

Another place: perhaps a cabin in the woods, or a tiny shack on an island. An apartment on the upper east side. A house in the suburbs. Anywhere at all.

They hide beneath blankets, chilled from the rain (or is it snow?) outside.

“Loving me… it won’t save you,” Elliot whispers, his hand slipping across cold sheets.

“I never expected it to,” Tyrell replies, his hand finding Elliot’s.

* * *

Some days, they don’t find each other.

Some days, they do.

* * *

Deep in the cold, dark woods, Tyrell leans in and says, “Make sure you take care of Whiterose.”

His voice wavers, breaks. “Okay?”

And Elliot’s eyes are so magnetic, now with the moonlight reflecting into them.

So Tyrell sniffs, Tyrell breathes in, out. Tyrell tries not to remember Elliot screaming, _“No!”_

“Elliot,” Tyrell says instead, soft and solemn like a final prayer.

“What?” Elliot asks, and he too is hushed, a prayer without intent.

And sometimes Tyrell leans in. Sometimes his lips find Elliot’s. Sometimes Elliot pulls away, blinking too much, and sometimes he clenches his fists, shaking, and sometimes Tyrell doesn’t lean in at all.

Those times, he says instead, “I’m just gonna go for a walk,” and leaves.

But sometimes, sometimes Elliot runs after him. Sometimes Tyrell’s name leaving his lips is not a whisper, but a desperate plea. Sometimes he screams until his voice is hoarse, until there’s nothing left but mist and moonlight.

Sometimes, Elliot leans in. They find each other, then, meeting in the middle, their arms winding their way around one another. Brief warmth, shared breath, a sigh.

Sometimes Tyrell stays.

* * *

An arcade. A warehouse. An apartment. A path leading nowhere.

* * *

Somewhere, anywhere, a man named Tyrell Wellick says, “I love you.”

And a man named Elliot Alderson says, “I wish you wouldn’t.”


End file.
